


Ave Maria

by gth694e



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (at least Bucky thinks it's one sided), Catholicism, Howling Commandos - Freeform, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Prayer, Roman Catholicism, WWII, World War II, deep discussions between friends in the middle of the night, seemingly one-sided Bucky/Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-03
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2019-02-10 03:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12902628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gth694e/pseuds/gth694e
Summary: It's the night before the fateful mission to capture Arnim Zola, and Bucky Barnes is on watch.In which Bucky and Steve discuss death.





	Ave Maria

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for discussions of death, mentions of torture, and some internalized homophobia (details in the end notes.)
> 
> Rating because of Bucky's bad language and the trigger warnings.
> 
> This fic would not be what it was without the input and beta reading of coriolana, kathar, and concertigrossi. Thank you guys for looking at a tiny little fic and helping me flesh it out into something more. That said all mistakes are definitely my own.

It was sometime past midnight, and Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes was on watch.

They were deep in the mountains, in places where no living soul usually dared trespass. Between the deep snow, sudden cliffs, and bitter wind, it was a treacherous place, even on such a bright night. Bucky’s nighttime vigil was more for the peace of mind of the Howling Commandos rather than out of any real need to watch for the enemy.

The moonlight glinted brightly off the pristine snow. From his place, half hidden in the lee of a boulder, he could see almost as if it were day. And in this deep, still night, with the whisper of trees the only background noise, he’d be able to hear the snow crunch before an enemy could sneak up. All in all, it was perhaps the easiest watch of the war.

The jagged mountain tops pierced the nighttime sky, the only darkness to block the light. This wilderness, wild and untamed, was so different from Brooklyn. This place was not the realm of men. And with each puff of his hot breath disrupting the night, Bucky expected some ancient god to appear, waking from his slumber to banish them for invading his Alpine refuge. It was unsettling, to feel as if he did not belong here. In New York City everything was made by a man, a monument to man’s ingenuity and ability to conquer nature. Whereas this quiet Alpine mountaintop with its dangers hidden beneath glittering beauty could easily conquer man.

A man could die up here and his body would never be found. A sacrifice to whatever god ruled this realm.

Macabre thoughts for such an exquisite night. But Bucky Barnes could not shake the feeling, deep inside of him that something was wrong. Perhaps it was the mission tomorrow and not the still night that was making him uneasy. Every mission as a Howling Commando was dangerous; there was no question. But tomorrow…

Perhaps it was the heights. Perhaps it was the moving train.

Or perhaps it was the target.

Zola. Every time someone uttered the name, Bucky felt his pulse quicken and his breathing become uneven, adrenaline spiking through his system. He wanted to run as far away from Arnim Zola as he possibly could—preferably a whole world between him and that monster with his analytical eyes and medical bag of horrors. But tomorrow Bucky would have to confront him.

Fear sunk like lead bullets in his gut.

Even without Zola, the mission was insane, as only a mission thought up by Steven fucking Rogers could be. When the army decided to give that tiny idiot a new body and a commission, they undoubtedly had no idea they weren’t creating the perfect soldier, but rather an insane rogue who did whatever he fucking wanted.

But Bucky Barnes would follow that idiot anywhere, whether it was zip-lining over a chasm onto Hydra’s fastest moving train or facing his own personal demon.

At a movement on his peripheral vision, Bucky tensed. Irrationally, he feared it was Zola, brought forth by the magic of this ominous night. Perhaps this was it, the moment when Bucky woke up to discover every recent memory was only a dream, and he was still strapped to that gurney in Zola’s laboratory, being prepped for the next torment.

Bucky scanned the snow before him before turning back to the camp to see that the sound was Steve getting out of his sleeping bag.

Steve. His appearance struck Bucky like a ray of sunshine in such a deep night, a wave of hope forcing back the nightmare. The tension flooded from Bucky and warmth filled him.

Usually the men only got up in the night to relieve themselves before quickly dashing back to their sleeping bags to escape the cold. Instead Steve crossed the camp, settling down next to Bucky against the boulder.

Steve knocked shoulders with Bucky, a small smile touching the larger man’s face. It had been over a year—maybe almost two? The months faded together in a way that made telling time hard—since Bucky had first seen Steve’s new body, and it still amazed him.

For nearly twenty years, Bucky had been the big one, the strong one, the one always charged with protecting and looking out for his fragile friend. And now it was Bucky who was fragile.

“Quiet night.” Steve’s voice was soft, probably to keep from waking the other commandos.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s response was more like a release of air than a word. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping? Big day tomorrow.”

Steve shrugged, and since they were sitting so close, Bucky could feel it—the rise and fall of his massive shoulders. “Needed to clear my head.”

He was worried about tomorrow. Bucky could see it written all over his face. But instead of addressing it, Bucky said, “Well this view is good for that.” He motioned up to the stars in the sky, more stars than two boys from Brooklyn had ever been able to imagine even existed.

Steve looked up at the stars, but Bucky looked at him. In the starlight, Steve’s skin was so pale, like a marble statue. He looked like a work of art now, his strong jaw no longer out of place on a tiny body. Bucky still didn’t entirely understand what Stark and Dr. Erskine had done to Steve exactly. Somehow, they’d given him the body of a god.

Hadn’t Bucky just been imagining this quiet winter land to be the domain of some ancient god? Perhaps Steve was that god, his body taking in the silence and starlight to feed its divinity and power, while Bucky was merely an interloper who didn’t deserve to see such beauty and perfection.

He wanted to reach out and touch, to run his hands over that strong jaw and down lower to his chest and abs, to feel the divine marble beneath his hands. God, he wanted it for as long as he could remember, even before the change. But such touches were not allowed of mere mortals, like Bucky Barnes.

“Do you ever think about death, Buck?” The familiar deep voice broke Bucky out of his reverie. This wasn’t a god. It was Steve. His best friend. With a new body, sure, but still the same punk who thought taking on a guy four times his size was a good idea.

“Do I ever think about what?”

“Death,” Steve repeated, turning to meet his gaze. His eyes looked troubled. A bad dream then, Bucky realized. That was why Steve was awake. And in that, this was no different from a million of other times, where Steve would wake up from a fever dream and then crawl into Bucky’s bed, asking him to banish the monsters.

Those nights had always been a bane and a boon to Bucky. To have Steve in his bed, so close that he could feel the heat of his breath. To have Steve so close, and yet not be able to touch him in the way he wanted; how he had wanted to press tender kisses to his bare chest. Instead, Bucky would smooth down Steve’s hair, like he knew Steve’s Ma used to do, to calm the smaller man and tell him that there were no monsters, it was just a dream.

But this monster, the specter of death, it wasn’t one Bucky could banish.

How could he tell Steve the truth? That when held captive in that Hydra camp, being experimented on by Zola, Bucky had wanted to die, just for it all to be over. He had thought at that point his death was inevitable. And then an angel saved him.

An angel who turned out to be his best friend.

Ever since then, Bucky had felt…different. There was something different about himself that he couldn’t put his finger on. How it was easier now than it had been before to shake off an injury. How somehow his reflexes were minutely faster than before. Zola had done something to him, Bucky was sure, but he was also sure Zola hadn’t expected Bucky to live through it.

Yet here Bucky was, because of Steve.

Steve had granted Bucky more time. And Bucky, being Bucky, felt that more time was for one purpose: to ensure the dumb idiot who sat next to him survived this war.

“Nah,” Bucky lied. He leaned back, looking into the distance with a smirk on his face, feigning a cocky confidence he knew Steve would eat up. “Take more than a war to kill me. I intend to die an old man in bed next to a young beautiful dame.”

“Like a young beautiful dame would be stupid enough to sleep with the likes of you,” Steve retorted.

Bucky was tempted to push Steve into the snow, but knew it might wake the other Commandos so instead he threw his arm around Steve’s neck and ruffled his hair with his free hand.

“Lemme go,” Steve said but laughter filled his voice and he didn’t really attempt to escape.

“What about you, punk?” Bucky asked, releasing Steve but leaving his arm around his broad shoulders. Steve didn’t brush him off, probably grateful for the extra warmth in the frozen night.

“What about me what?”

“Death, do you think about death?”

“Buck, I’ve been thinking about death every day since I could think,” Steve said. Bucky looked at him in surprise. Steve’s face was a mask of seriousness, his eyes staring off into the distance but seeing further. “As far as I can remember, I knew I was supposed to die.”

Steve fell silent for a moment, and then he pulled out of his pocket an old rosary—Sarah Rogers’ rosary. Both men looked down at it, Steve fingering the well-worn beads. After a long moment, Steve spoke, his voice so quiet the wind almost took it away. “When I was real little, Ma would come into my room while she thought I was sleeping. She would pray over me and cry. I was all she had left, and I was so sick all the time.”

Bucky could imagine it. Sarah Rogers had been a devout woman, as had Bucky’s own mother. He could remember the both of them kneeling in the church, their heads covered with lacy veils. Sometimes Mrs. Rogers would falter in her prayer, and Bucky remembered his mother placing a gentle hand to her back, her voice strong enough for both of them as she recited their prayers.

“I bet my mama is praying for us right now,” Bucky said. “Probably lighting a candle for the both of us as we speak. And you know my mama, Steve. She’ll go to God himself to make him answer for it if either one of us dies.”

Steve’s laugh was too small to hear, but Bucky felt it in the shake of his shoulders. “I think even God is afraid of your ma, Buck.”

“Damn right to be too. The devil quails under her glare.” Once, Bucky had actually believed his own words. That even the fiercest of forces—God and the devil—had to bend to his mother’s will. That the strength of his mother’s stubbornness alone would get Bucky Barnes through this war, because he knew if he died his mother would kill him.

Then Zola happened. And Bucky had begged, begged for anything just to end the pain. Begged to die because not even death or his mother’s wrath could be worse than the fire that flooded his veins after one of the treatments, as if he was being incinerated from the inside out.

Bucky looked away from Steve, not wanting the other man to see any hint of the memories that haunted him still. He didn’t want Steve to know.

Thankfully Steve stayed silent, lost in his own thoughts. When Bucky finally got his breathing under control, he glanced back at him, his best friend.

His profile in the moonlight was exquisite. Bucky wished he had Steve’s ability to draw, so he could capture this moment forever, and carry it near his heart.

He’d always wanted a picture of Steve, but they could afford so few and Steve hated doing self-portraits. Bucky had always been so afraid when they were young, that something would happen to Steve and he would have nothing left to remember him by.

Because Steve was right. The specter of his death had been something that haunted them all their lives. Bucky could remember a late-night conversation between his parents, that floated through the vents—his mother wondering if they should let Bucky get close to a boy who would inevitably die. His father’s response was simple: everyone died someday. Even Bucky’s healthy friends could be taken the next day in some sort of accident.

That was the first Bucky realized Steve might die. Then Steve had gotten the measles, and Bucky had been sure death was coming to take his friend.

He had gone to mass every night that week, lighting a candle with trembling hands for his best friend. It had been the first time he said his prayers in earnest.

And Steve had lived.

Steve always lived. Every time he got sick, Bucky—who normally hated church and its stuffy walls—found himself back at mass, lighting a candle with trembling hands and saying his prayers.

Bucky reached out, gently touching the rosary. His fingers knew this rosary, his soul knew the prayers. He could almost hear his family. His sister was always bored, saying the words by rote. His mother always spoke with confidence and surety, so certain her words would go before God. And his father’s mumble in a deep rumbling bass, the words more of a feeling than anything spoken.

_Ave Maria. Gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus, et benedictus fructus ventris tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen._

The next bead, the prayer again.

Sarah Roger’s Irish accent always added a lyrical aspect to the prayer, even when towards the end her voice became tired and airy. And then there was Steve, who was usually too brash and loud for his own health, when in church his words came out a whisper, humble before God.

_Hail Mary full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen._

It wasn’t until near the end of the decade that Bucky realized he and Steve were actually praying out loud. At some point they had moved, kneeling, their heads nearly brushing as both of them prayed using the same set of beads.

They reached the end of the decade, Bucky’s fingers on the very last bead, but neither moved.

 _Don’t let him die._ Bucky hoped Mary would take his prayer before God if it went up in the same breath as the Hail Mary. _If someone must, take me. Not him. Never him. He’s so much better than me. He can do so much more for God. If there is one thing I can do, let it be this. Let me die in his place. Please, Mother Mary. You are the only mother he has left. Let us together protect him. Please._

Only the deep silence of the night answered him.

Bucky felt rather than saw Steve, the light brush of hair against hair as Steve pulled away. The beads slipped away from Bucky’s hands. He looked up.

Steve was watching him, something almost tender in his eyes. “Wow, Bucky,” Steve broke the silence. “To think you say your prayers when not forced to by Father Michael.”

And suddenly all tenderness dissipated into that punk’s famous shit-eating grin.

Bucky shoved him—like he deserved--and Steve fell over into the snow. His shoulders were shaking as he laughed without sound, probably afraid to wake the commandos.

God, he was beautiful, stretched out in the snow. But Bucky couldn’t leave him there, his clothes probably getting soaked. He offered him a hand, and the two stood.

“Thanks, Buck,” Steve said. “I feel better.”

“Mama always swore that prayer could solve anything,” Bucky said. He knocked shoulders with Steve. “Now why don’t you go get some sleep? Someone’s gotta be chipper in the morning to lead us, Captain.”

“Alright, Sergeant.” The twinkle was back in Steve’s eye. “You gonna get some sleep yourself?”

“I’ll wake Dernier to take final watch,” Bucky said. “I’ll get a couple of hours in.”

Steve nodded and then suddenly he pulled Bucky in a tight bear hug. Bucky held him back as tight as he could, tighter than he ever would have dared when Steve was still tiny and fragile.

God, he wished he could touch Steve like this all the time. He wanted this and so much more, to lean back slightly and tilt up his head, so his lips could brush Steve’s.

But it wasn’t right to want such things. Not with Steve who was so golden and pure. And certainly not after he’d just been praying to the Virgin Mary.

Some things were never meant to be Bucky’s.

Steve released him, said a soft goodnight, and then disappeared back into his sleeping bag.

Bucky stood alone in the snow.

He didn’t know what he would do if Steve died. Which is why he wasn’t going to let it happen. Steve would get his happy ending; Bucky would see to that. Even if it meant facing Zola.

Because nothing in the world meant more to Bucky Barnes than Steven Grant Rogers. Not even Bucky’s life.

**Author's Note:**

> Detailed Trigger Warnings:  
> \--Trigger warning discussion of death: Bucky and Steve discuss death and the fact that Steve always thought he was going to die. Bucky thinks about how when he was being tortured by Zola he wanted to die.  
> \--Trigger warning for torture: Bucky thinks about how Zola experimented on him and the anxiety/fear that fills him with now.  
> \--Trigger warning for internalized homophobia: Bucky doesn't think he can have Steve, thinks loving him would make Steve impure, and basically thinks loving Steve is a sin.
> 
> Other Notes:  
> Hey guys I know it's been a really really really long time since I posted anything. I have no defense, just that life was crazy for these past two years as I adjusted to different work/life things. I basically stopped writing for a while. But now I'm back and most of the fics I'm working on are epically long. So I wrote two little short fic-lets I could post this month, because it was one of my New Year's Resolutions for 2017 to post something to Ao3. Better December than never! So this is the first of the two, and then the second will be a short Christmas fluff featuring Phlint (Phil Coulson/Clint Barton). Anyway, just a note to say thank you for coming here and reading despite me disappearing for so long, and you can always find me on [tumblr](http://the-feels-assassin.tumblr.com/) where I post about my status with different fics and just life in general.


End file.
